She stood waiting for the street-light to turn green. She was a crescent moon caught waxing on the other side of a river made of moving steel. She tugged on the front of her shirt with her free hand; smoking a cigarette irritably with the other. She was beautiful in her round luminescence but, just as a flash-light cannot turn to illuminate itself, she remained ignorant of her light. She tugged on her shirt again to flatten her roundness. She would have flattened her own soul if someone told her it made her look fat.